


Beyond Bleeding

by shemlentrash (Jess_X)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Serious Injuries, Slave Fenris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_X/pseuds/shemlentrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When mage Hawke is grievously injured in battle, Fenris sacrifices everything to help heal her. His selflessness saves her life, but sends him reeling into vivid flashbacks of his life as a slave. His past haunts him, but Hawke remains his guiding light. Some wounds are beyond anything that bleeds, but in the wake of trauma, love stories can still be written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you even start reading this, let me make it clear that this story contains graphic descriptions of nonconsensual oral sex and life as a slave. It also is blatantly supposed to depict PTSD in all its shitty glory, as disturbing and tragic as it really can be. Now that you know that, do as you will.

Bodies lay around them in heaps. Greyish horned corpses painted the landscape, and the smell was pungent. The four fighters left standing were all decorated gloriously in Tal-Vashoth blood.

The air was still. The fight appeared over.

Fenris wiped a bit of red from his eyes, and glanced at Hawke to share a victorious smile. The sight he found instead made his heart sink: she was wounded, doubled over, with her hands on her stomach to stem an obvious flow of blood.

“Hawke!” Distracted by her state, he abandoned his usual vigilance to run to her side. Behind him, Varric and Aveline were still panting in the aftermath of the battle, gazing around them for stragglers. He should have been helping them, but Hawke was all that mattered to him now. Her soft hands, her icy eyes and infectious laugh – she was everything to him, and always his first concern.

Fenris put a hand on her back, and leaned forward to aid in lifting her upright. She waved him off, and stood up on her own, wincing. “I’m fine, Fenris,” she said softly. He knew she was lying, but he felt helpless to those gentle eyes, and could not argue. “It’ll take more than a stab wound through the abdomen to bring me down, you know.” She winked.

“I do not have any poultices, though. Can you… heal… yourself?” His lip curled a little, as the telltale anger sparked in his belly at the mention of her magic. She was a talented healer, though, and whatever he felt about it, her magic was part of her. Besides, for a mage, she certainly knew how to remain in control. The hardest thing for Fenris had been realizing he really could trust her – for trusting anyone was something he hadn’t ever felt comfortable doing before. But to trust a mage? It was unthinkable; yet there it was. He loved her. Maker help him, he loved her from the inside out, to the ends of the Thedas and back again, and she had no idea just how deep that ran. He would do anything for her.

Hawke nodded. “I can try,” she said. “My mana's just pretty depleted. I need to…”

A whistle shot through air. The sharp spearhead emerged from her stomach, jutting from beneath her ribs without a moment’s warning. The weapon was colored a rich, deep scarlet, glistening with Hawke’s blood. Fenris was powerless to stop it now; the damage was done. He could only watch as her robes soaked through with blood, and her face drained of color.

The moment felt very long during which they both stared at the fresh wound in disbelief.

But the seconds passed, and she went limp. Fenris dropped his weapon immediately and deftly caught her in his arms before she hit the ground.

He did not need to demand revenge. Aveline was already on it, and he could hear Varric firing Bianca in rapid bursts from somewhere behind him. But it was all white noise. The whole world was grey save for the mage he was supporting, the flowing red stark against her pale skin.

“Hawke,” he whispered fiercely. “Heal yourself, come on.”

She shook her head, and motioned to her pack. He opened it. There were no potions, no bandages. Magic was their only option, but…

The sound she made was incoherent. A strange croak from the dry lips of a dying woman. Her eyelids flickered.

“No,” Fenris snapped, feeling his heart stop for a moment. He jostled her in his arms. “Stay awake, Hawke. We must have extra lyrium somewhere. Please. Help me. I need you to be okay.”

Footsteps clambered up behind him. “Hawke!” Aveline was panting beside him. She dropped to her knees, shield clanging to the ground as she abandoned everything to check on her friend. Varric stood some feet away, shaking his head. He looked too horrified to react.

“Lyrium,” Fenris hissed. “Please, we must have some.”

Aveline shook her head, and pressed a hand to Hawke’s forehead. “I’m sorry, Fenris. We’re completely out.”

“And the nearest vendor is at least a day’s hike from here,” Varric choked. He looked pained. “She’ll be dead by then.”

Fenris cursed. “Come on, Hawke,” he yelled down at her. “Stay with us.” The rage was making his head swim and his blood pound loudly in his ears. Aveline put a hand on his armored shoulder, and he shrugged her off. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped. His voice cracked. He could not take his eyes off Hawke’s face. She was white as a ghost, and her eyes were empty. Blood was trickling very slowly from the corner of her lips. “Come on,” he said again. “Please.” His plea fell on a sob, and he shook her again as he begged for her life.

“Shaking her isn’t helping,” Aveline snapped.

“Neither are you,” Fenris roared.

“Hey,” Varric reasoned loudly. “We’re all scared right now, but yelling at each other is only going to make it all worse. We need to think, here.”

Hawke gurgled. Fenris hugged her closer, shushing the others in case Hawke tried to speak. “I,” she managed, then she coughed, and blood spattered from her, painting Fenris’ armor. He kissed her forehead, his heart aching. “I’m… going to die,” she breathed helplessly. She could speak. That was something. Blood ran down her chin.

The elf shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he spat. “Don’t be an idiot. You know I would never let you die.”

“So I’m an idiot,” she laughed hoarsely, gurgling a little more blood with every word. A fresh fountain oozed from the wound in her abdomen, and she winced. “At least… no one can say… my life was boring.” She smiled weakly, and turned her eyes from their aimless stare to look directly at Fenris. “And I met you,” she whispered. He clutched her hand. She was too weak to squeeze back, but he didn’t care. He clung to her like she was his life’s breath. “That makes me a very fortunate person.”

“Damn it, Hawke,” Varric said suddenly. “The one time you don’t bring Blondie with us, this happens, and you’re the only one of us who can do any healing.”

She cringed and whined from the pain, but still tried to smile. “You know me,” she said. “I’ve always had… spectacular timing, haven’t I?”

Varric laughed sadly. “You moron,” he said lovingly. “Stop this, now. We’ll find a way to heal you.”

“I can’t...” she said lamely.

“And you’re sure you can’t regenerate mana on your own?” Aveline sounded desperate.

The champion shook her head. “Not… like this,” she said with a shuddering breath. Fenris could feel her trembling in his arms. She was going into shock.

Determination like he hadn’t felt since the day he’d murdered Danarius suddenly swept through him. “You’re going to be alright, Hawke,” Fenris said sternly. “Trust me.”

He let go of her, let her head rest on his lap, and began work on removing his gauntlets.

Varric scoffed. “Is now really the time for a strip tease?”

“I know what I’m doing, dwarf,” he snapped.

He said he’d never allow this to happen again. It represented everything he hated, and reminded him strongly of a time he’d tried so hard to forget. But if it could save Hawke’s life… he would do anything. He would die for her.

“Here,” he growled tremulously, taking her hand and placing her palm on his forearm, where the markings swirled in abundance. The touch ached as usual, but he was used to that by now. He’d felt her entire body wrapped around him, and had learned to find it pleasurable.

What was to come next, however, was something he had not felt in years. The last time this had been done, he had been collared. The last time this had been done… he couldn’t bring himself to think of it.

“Hawke,” he called, using his free hand to slap her cheek lightly. “Hawke, please. Look at me.” She did, but dimly through unfocused eyes. “Concentrate,” he told her, making eye contact as best he could. His heart was beating very fast. This needed to work.

Some small selfish part of him hoped it wouldn’t. He did not want to go through this again. But it was nothing but a nagging insecurity. It did not matter as much as her life did.

“Concentrate,” he repeated. She shook her head.

Aveline stood and backed away. Varric looked deeply troubled, shaking his head. “Are you quite sure about this, Elf?”

Fenris did not answer him. “Hawke,” he said again. “Please.” Her palm was warm against him, even as it stung, and it filled his heart with a terrible sorrow. He could not lose her. He refused. He would do anything. “Please,” he demanded, and the desperate words began to spill before he could stop them. “Take from me. Take what you need. Please. Please, I love you, Hawke. I love you. Concentrate. Please. For me.” The words were coming in unstoppable desperate waves. His heart seared. “Hawke…”

She shook her head again, tears in her eyes. “Fenris… No...”

“Stop it,” he cut her off, anger seeping its way into his tone. “I need you. And I need you to do this.” He placed his hand over hers, pressing her skin hard against his markings. They glowed, and the light spread from the point of contact until he was suddenly bright like a flame. “For me.” He licked his lips, bracing himself. “Please,” he sobbed one last time.

“I’m… sorry…” Hawke drew in a shaky breath, held it, and closed her eyes.

Even expecting it, there was no way he could have prepared himself.

The sudden agony tore through him so sharply, he let go of her so she fell limp in his lap – but he did not pull away or remove her hand. Years of training had taught him to serve well; to endure anything for the sake of his Master; to do as he was told, and take whatever he was given without question or resistance.

He could hear Aveline calling his name in the distance, but she sounded very far away. It was all he could do not to fall over, but he needed to remain in place for Hawke, so that she could continue. So that she could live. He did not notice that he was crying, and he barely felt the hands on his shoulders, holding him up. All he knew was that he felt his flesh was being pulled from his bones strip by strip, felt his raw muscles were exposed and on fire, and his heart was tight in his chest.

Hawke’s hand tightened around his arm suddenly. She had begun to moan obscenely as the lyrium filled her, and the sound surrounded him. It held him. It told him his pain was worth it. And it was his last coherent thought.

The shooting, stabbing sensations were crawling through him so hard and fast, he could not string two thoughts together. He could not see. Everything was white-hot boiling pain, violent and visceral and overwhelming.

As the seconds stretched by, he forgot her. He forgot everything.

He felt a sinking in his chest, felt the ground hard and damp beneath his knees, and – he found himself wondering why Master’s hand felt unusually small and soft today. Fenris had been made for this purpose, and he knew Master needed him. He bowed his head, waiting for it to be over. Waiting for the magic to stop so that - if he did a good job pleasing Master - he could be taken care of. He was a prized pet, and Master was good to him. He beat him only when he deserved it, a luxury most slaves did not have. True enough, Hadriana made his life hell, but Master had nothing to do with her treatment of him. Master was good. Master took care of him. Master was everything. Fenris loved him.

Then, the pain ceased as jarringly as it had begun.

The residual sting was so harsh that he was still blinded, and a thin sheet of sweat coated him from head to toe. He was panting hard, shaking violently, and felt sick to his stomach.

Fenris kept his head down. The world was spinning. He did not know where he was. Hardwired obedience persisted through his confusion and pain, and he managed to croak, “Th – thank you, Master,” before everything swirled in a violent fusion of color and roaring sound – and then disappeared into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this kind of story has probably been done before, but that's alright. It was tearing me up trying to get out of me, so I'm glad I wrote it anyway. This whole story was actually going to be a very short oneshot, but it got away from me. So the beginning feels really strange to me now, but I can't figure out how to make myself happy with it, so I'm gonna just step away from it and let it be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for explicit rape/nonconsensual oral sex, and descriptions of slave life. If you don't want to read that sort of thing, you can skip this chapter and the rest of the story will still make sense. Stay safe, friends!

Fenris stood silently in the corner behind Master’s chair, still and diligent. He waited patiently, like furniture ready to serve its use upon command. When he was called, he went without question. “I am drained,” Master said lazily from his armchair, beckoning to the elf as he put his books aside. He had been experimenting with some new manner of blood magic, but it was not Fenris’ place to ask questions on the matter. He wouldn't dare to even try.

He knelt, and bowed his head, eyes on floor at Master's feet. “Yes, Master,” he said obediently, offering his arms above his head, presenting his unusual tattoos like a gift on a platter.

Master sneered. “Not like that today, my sweet little wolf,” he sighed, and the lascivious tone on the magister’s tongue made Fenris’ blood run cold with trepidation. “Remove your shirt.”

“Yes, Master.” Whatever dread he felt could never hinder his obedience. He never faltered. Fenris was a good boy, as Master told him often, and he was proud.

The shirt came over his head, and he winced as the scratchy fabric caught under his chin, making his neck markings sting profusely.

Looking contemplative, Master leaned forward in his chair to inspect his boy. “Straighten that posture,” he said suddenly, and Fenris did, eyes now fixed on Master’s boots. Master chuckled. “Chin up, little one. I want to see your pretty face.”

Fenris looked up to the ceiling. Feeling frighteningly exposed, he waited in cool silence. He had no right to feel any kind of shame, for he belonged to Master, not to himself. If Master wished to see him this way, it was his right, for Fenris had no claim to himself, no purpose but to serve Master as obediently as was possible.

Master gave a hum of approval, running his fingers along Fenris’ torso, mercifully avoiding his markings. The caress made him shudder, and he was grateful that Master was being so gentle, even though he knew it would not last. “Oh, such a pretty thing you are,” Master said quietly. Fenris blinked at the ceiling, feeling his face grow hot.

“Thank you, Master,” he stated flatly.

“Ah, but you will be thanking me far more soon, my pet,” he said. “Tell me, do you want me to fuck you tonight?”

 _No_ , Fenris thought furiously. _Maker, please, no. Never. Not again_. But instead, he replied numbly, “Yes, Master. Always, Master. I wish only to please you.”

“Ah,  but I have taught you so well, my sweet little wolf,” the mage hissed. “Such a good boy you are. My good boy.”

“Thank you, Master,” Fenris said automatically. “I am yours, Master.”

“Good boy,” the greying magister praised. Fenris’ heart leapt proudly out of instinct. “Now, look at me.” Fenris looked, and his eyes suddenly burned as they fixed that powerful gaze. “Keep your eyes on me, my pet,” the man said loftily, “And enjoy it.”

Fenris kept his green eyes locked firmly on the man who owned him. He wanted immediately to look away again. It was easier to obey thoughtlessly when he did not have to make eye contact. This made it all so much more painful. But devotion and fear kept him bound despite the pain. Should he disobey, he would be sorely punished, and his back still ached from his last lashing. He did not want another, though that would not be up to him anyway.

A single gesture told Fenris he should come closer, and he did so, scooting forward on his knees until he was pressed directly between Master’s legs. “That’s my boy,” Master cooed. He ran a hand through Fenris’ hair, the way one might stroke an animal. Then, to his horror, Master slipped a thumb into Fenris’ mouth. His heart began to pound, but still he did not look away. He did not want this again.

But there was nothing he could do about it as Danarius prodded his tongue and traced his lips. It was his duty to be used by the Master in any way he saw fit. It was his purpose to allow Master to take from him anything he wanted.

Master withdrew his hand, and Fenris knew what was coming before Master said even a word. His expression must have shown his disinterest, because suddenly a sharp sting on his cheek made him jolt. Master had hit him. “My sweet little wolf,” he said gently, “why do you look so frightened? You know it is a gift when I touch you. You know it means you are special, do you not? No one would touch you if I did not.”

“Yes, Master,” he said, throwing himself to the ground to kiss Master’s boot.

“It should be an honor and a privilege to be touched by me, pet. After all these years, you should know this.” He was right, of course. It _was_ an honor, whether Fenris enjoyed it or not. He was proud to have been chosen for this great purpose, even if he hated the act itself.

“Yes, Master. Of course it is. I am so sorry, Master.” He groveled, already anticipating the inevitable punishment that would surely come later for his lack of enthusiasm. Desperate, he pressed his face reverently to the toe of Master's boot again, and opened his mouth to suggest that Master crush him beneath his sole, as he only deserved. But the magister spoke before he had a chance, to his great relief.

“Sit up, boy,” Danarius snapped. Fenris sat back upright, his face enflamed with humiliation and shame. “You know better than that, Fenris, my child. Now…” He hoisted up his robes, pooling the fabric around his hips, and then he twisted a hand into Fenris’ hair. The elf whimpered. His scalp ached. He knew what his duty was, and he did not flinch. He simply stared at his Master, pleading for love and mercy with his shining wide eyes. But no mercy came. It never did. “Be good, little one. Open.”

He had been trained for this, over a long period; trained to withstand pain, punishment, and sex. At first he had cried, he had bitten his trainers and refused to comply; but the training eventually broke him, and he was now most skilled in the art of taking what he was given. He no longer said no. He no longer fought back. He was a true prize for Danarius to take to his bed; indeed he was the envy of many magisters, and not merely for his unique markings.

The hard cock in his face was hardly new to him, but still he felt the telltale revulsion boil in him as Master nudged it against his lips. Fenris wrapped his mouth around it, and waited for direction. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not gagging as the head of Master’s thick cock slid along his tongue to press against the back of his throat. Danarius groaned, and thrust upward so hard that, had the slave not been so competent, he surely would have choked.

But Fenris _never_ choked. Fenris could barely feel what was happening, anyway. He felt he was some feet away, watching Danarius fuck someone else’s face like a toy, remaining completely uninvolved in the process. The thrusts were frenzied and repetitive, over and over again, holding Fenris’ head still with his fingers in his hair. It was ugly. Wet. Sloppy. Violent.

Suddenly, there was relief. Fenris had a moment to sit back on his heels, and he breathed deeply. Spit ran down his front, and his throat and jaw were aching. “Thank you, Master,” he gasped dutifully.

Danarius chuckled, leering. “Oh, I’m not finished, you sweet pretty thing, I just want to hear you say how much you love it. Go on.”

“I love it, Master.”

“What do you love, boy?” Danarius took him by the ring of his collar, and jostled him, shaking his head like that of a doll.

“I love when you use me for your pleasure, Master.” The words tasted like ash on his throbbing tongue.

Master hummed approvingly. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said. The fist in Fenris’ hair tightened. “And what are you, my little wolf?”

“Only yours, Master,” he said, and he felt he was speaking from a great distance, reading a script memorized in another life.

"Beg me for more, little one."

Truly nauseous now, Fenris' mind went defensively blank as he recited, "Please fuck my mouth more, Master. I was made to serve you, Master. Please allow me the honor of serving your body, Master."

With a hiss, Master demanded, “Open” once more, and Fenris did.

His throat was fucked hard, violated without mercy, but Fenris accepted it with little care anymore. This was his fate, and it would be until he became too old for Danarius to find pleasing anymore. He was used to it. It was survivable. It was, at least, a more comfortable life than some were doomed to. He was lucky.

One hand moved from Fenris’ hair down his neck, coming to rest on the elf’s shoulder, tracing one of his unwanted tattoos. “Mm,” he moaned as Fenris’ mouth coated him obediently, swirling his tongue in the way he knew Master found especially pleasing. “Good boy.” His voice sounded strained through the overwhelming bliss of Fenris’ willing, pliant mouth.

Master's hands tightened on Fenris’ shoulders, his fingers digging greedily into his markings. The slave breathed carefully through his nose, forcing himself not to wince and trying unsuccessfully to prepare himself for what was to come next.

It was, of course, no shock; Fenris had expected it – but still the pain ripped into his gut so sharply that he felt suddenly sick. It was a sensation that one could not be trained to endure, and could not be adjusted to with any amount of practice. It began at the point of contact, where Master’s fingers touched his markings, and it crawled forth from there to consume his entire body from the inside out.

The lyrium was siphoned from his flesh with such force, there seemed to be daggers in every vein. His skin felt as though it were being torn from his bones. Every inch of him was on fire. His vision was spinning. Head forced down, cock still impaling his throat, he choked badly, and his eyes welled up with tears. Despite his significant training, Fenris' throat had betrayed him, and he felt his heart clench fearfully. He cared not for the pain, only for the fact that Master was certain to be angry with him for gagging.

But Master seemed to revel in his pained cough, and Fenris heard him moan sadistically, shoving himself further into Fenris’ scraping throat, which stretched and protested. The magister clearly enjoyed the way Fenris’ eyes watered, his face going red and splotchy under the pressure of trying to breathe. His choking sputter seemed to echo in his ears, ringing. It scared him, but only fueled Master's passion. The sound tore out of him, pressing something up from his belly, through his chest, making him feel sick. He was suffocating, and the pain only intensified, the entire surface of his skin feeling as though it were on fire.

A terrible scream pierced the air. Was that _him_ screaming? Dimly, he knew that it was. The sound was separate from his worldly body however, and his head was spinning. He could not feel the floor beneath his knees.

The world crumbled around him. Reality faltered. Not even the sudden jet of semen shooting down his bruised throat felt particularly real, and Master’s grunt of pleasure was barely audible to him. The only thing remotely real to him was the searing agony of the lyrium being ripped from under his flesh by magic.

His scream grew louder. Fenris’ skin seemed to slowly numb itself defensively as the pain went on. He could not stop it. He could not move his body. He could not do anything. There was nothing but the pain. No Master, no collar around his neck, no ground beneath him.

He seemed to be floating.

Floating? No… not floating. Lying down. Somewhere.

Somewhere... better. The pain was lesser here, and even through the fog of residual agony, he wondered if he should be feeling relief.

Yet relief never came. There wouldn’t have been room for it anyway. All he had space for was the overwhelming fear, and the expectation of more pain to come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was... very hard to write, for a lot of reasons. And ultimately I'm not happy with it, but I'm not too worried about that, because I kind of think I'll never be able to feel happy about a piece like this... yeah. So... there it is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'll put a warning here for angst? But that you probably should have expected anyway.

His back was resting on something solid; solid, yet warm, soft, and inviting. His jaw no longer ached, and his mouth was empty, but the sensation of the touch against his tongue and the pressure in his throat still lingered. Eyes squeezed shut, he could still tell that dark shapes were looming around him in the dark.

Was Master finished with him? He was very confused, and not sure what day it was. He balled his shaking hands into fists. There was cold sweat on his brow, and his flesh was still prickling even as the agony subsided.

“Fenris,” came a gentle voice. Unfamiliar. Soft. Caring.

He shook his head. The voice made no sense to him. If Master was finished with him, he would be furious with him for his failure, especially now that he had collapsed without thanking him. He did not want to be punished for this. He couldn’t take it this time. He would beg; yes, he would throw himself at Master’s mercy on hands and knees, as doting and subservient as he could possibly manage to be.

“I'm sorry, Master!” he yelped desperately, sitting bolt upright. His voice cracked, his throat very dry.

“Fenris,” the voice said again. “Open your eyes.” A hand was on his damp forehead, and it jolted him into the real world with a resounding crash that shook him to his core.

His heart sank even as reality set in. Fenris was a _free man_. Danarius was dead. It was over. He almost couldn't believe it. Yet despite this good news, he had certainly humiliated himself. He was sure of it. But whether he wanted to or not, he would have to face whatever was coming. So with a quick shuddering breath, he finally opened his eyes.

Hawke was peering at him, sitting cross-legged beside him on the bed. She was no longer covered in blood, wearing a basic tunic and breeches now, and her hair was wet as though she had bathed. “You’re alive,” he sniffed. “Good.” The look of empathy she wore was disturbing to him. He swallowed. “I... am sorry,” he said gruffly, averting his gaze.

She looked puzzled. “Why on earth are you sorry?” she asked, running her fingers down the length of his face, stroking him in a way so tender and intimate, it chilled him.

“I – ” He paused, and thought, his mouth twisting in self disgust. “Bad habit,” he finished. She did not need to know that he was conditioned that way, to assume responsibility and submit to punishment. She did not need to know that he still felt trapped all those years ago in that moment of failure, and still lived in fear of his beatings; still felt ready to beg for mercy at any given second. Maybe she could stand to know, he thought meekly, but he needed her to stay with him, and if she knew the truth, he wasn't sure she would remain.

Sighing, Hawke shifted on the bed. “Fenris,” she said quietly. “You saved my life. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He grunted, not wanting to seem too pleased, but his heart was elated as the memory returned to him. His flashback had been worth it if his sacrifice had saved Hawke. Beautiful Hawke. He put a hand on her knee without thinking, then blushed. “I’m sorry,” he said again, quickly withdrawing his hand.

“Don’t you dare be sorry. Didn’t I just say that? Not for this, or for anything,” she said. She shook her head, sounding close to tears. “Fenris… _I’m_ the one who should be sorry.”

“You were going to die,” he snapped, still staring at his legs instead of at her. “That could not be helped.”

“But it’s my fault you suffered so much. I could have done something differently to prevent getting hurt. I should have stopped you…”

“You would have died if you had. Don’t be ridiculous.”

She scoffed sadly. “Well at least then you wouldn’t have had to suffer those nightmares. You don’t deserve that.”

His veins turned to ice. He felt the color drain from his face. “How…”

Hawke shrugged apologetically. “You… spoke.”

Horror trickled through him like ice water, and he groaned, curling up with his knees to his chest, hugging his legs close. “I’m so… so… sorry. I never wanted you to hear…”

“It wasn’t much,” she said quickly. “Just little phrases. ‘Yes, Master,’ ‘Thank you, Master,’ ‘I’m sorry, Master.’ Don’t worry.”

Fenris relaxed a little, and finally looked at her. Those blue eyes were glistening tearfully, full of sorrow yet conveying such admiration that it scared him. He shivered. With a rattling breath, some of the tension eased out of him under her watchful stare. He could not bear it if she were to know how he had once been trained and used. She would never look at him this way if she knew. There was no way she could love him if she knew how Danarius had used him, how moments ago he’d relived his Master’s semen shooting down his throat, spilling across his tongue and down his chin. She would not see him as the same man.

He _wasn’t_ the same man, though. She had made him better since those days. “I regret that you heard those things,” he said quietly, not knowing what else to say or do. He searched her face. “Thank you, by the way. For taking care of me.” He gestured around them to Hawke’s bedroom walls. “I… appreciate not waking up in the mansion. It’s… very empty there,” he said hesitantly. “And too full of ghosts.”

“Not literally, I hope,” she laughed. The memory of Bartrand’s estate was still fresh in their memories, and he smiled weakly at her levity.

“No,” he told her. “Not literally. It’s simply… too much of a reminder.”

“Because he stayed there for a while?” she asked, looking as though referring to the man left a nasty taste on her tongue. If only she knew.

He sighed and nodded, his heart beating very fast. “Yes,” he sneered. “But he is dead. I feel deeply foolish for still feeling that way.”

“Oh, stop it. What you’ve suffered, most people can only imagine in their worst nightmares. But that’s all you’ve known. It is hardly foolish to be haunted by a life of such intense trauma.”

Fenris snorted. “Trauma,” he repeated irritably, his lip curling in disgust. “You make me sound so weak.”

Hawke brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. “Trauma does not make you weak. And _you_ could definitely never be weak,” she told him firmly, and he felt his heart soar. The sensation transitioned smoothly into a painful tugging inside of him, and suddenly his eyes burned, threatening him with tears. He blinked quickly, and looked away again. “Hey,” she said softly. “It’s okay. You’re okay now.”

She moved her hand from his face to his scalp, and he felt nauseous, feeling once again Master’s hand in his hair, holding him steady around a mouthful of fat cock; smooth, salty, swollen, choking –  

The memory was too vivid. He gagged, and slapped her hand away. Blood was rushing in his ears, and he could hear nothing over the roar of his own terror. He could feel his Master on him, hear his gentle laugh as he stroked the hair of the dutiful pet kneeling at his feet.

Colors burst before his eyes, they were shut so tightly. His stomach was agitated. He thought he might throw up, and he hoped he would if only to expel his memories somehow.

But the moment passed. Beads of sweat were trickling down the side of his face. Panting, he looked up at her again. He felt raw and slightly unreal, as though he still had one foot in the past. “I’m sorry,” he said in a hushed tone, but she shook her head.

“There’s no need to be sorry,” she told him calmly with a sad smile. “If you don’t want to be touched, I understand.”

“How can you possibly understand?” he snapped. He sounded very hoarse.

She shrugged. “Well, obviously I can’t understand what you’ve been through,” she clarified, “but I know what it is to feel triggered by certain things. I've seen it before and I've felt triggered by some things myself sometimes, on some level. If touch is too hard for you, then…”

“It isn’t,” he said quickly. “I mean… not...  usually. My markings do cause me pain when touched, of course. You know that, and it cannot be helped. But that… I can suffer it. I am used to it, and I would suffer anything for your touch. Besides, you make it hurt… less.” His voice was a purr, and he let his eyes linger on the hollow of her throat. Her lips pursed in an exasperated smirk. Then he blinked hard. “But after… what I saw in my head… what I felt again just now… it was too fresh.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he sneered. Then he paused. "Maybe. But you would not see me as I am, were I to tell you. I cannot risk that. I… need you.”

Hawke smiled genuinely, her eyes sparkling. “Fenris, I would never leave you. I’ve seen you in some pretty terrible situations, and I'm still here. You’ve admitted murder to me. I literally watched you kill your sister. I’ve seen you blackout drunk, and taken care of you. You’ve even thrown up on me before.”

His eyes widened. “I never - ”

“You did,” she teased. “You just don't remember. It was just after you’d killed Danarius - and after you'd already gone crawling back to the girl of your dreams, of course.” He made an irritated face at her, and she stuck out her tongue playfully before continuing. Oh, how he wanted to reach for that tongue and kiss her, but he felt paralyzed still by the fear in his veins and the prickling in his skin.

“You had one drink to start, celebrating all the recent joys: your former Master was finally dead, you finally got the girl - and an extremely good looking girl, as it were.” She winked. He shook his head, smirking, watching her mouth as she spoke. “And, anyway, one drink turned into several bottles, of course, as it’s _you_ …” She glared disapprovingly. “And that lead to you becoming a sloppy mess.” She chuckled as she reminisced. “You cried and incoherently babbled while you did, about Danarius mostly. It was sort of hilarious, but sort of depressing, too. And then you threw up on me" She snorted. "There's not actually much of a story there. It was just… gross.” She grinned. “But I cleaned you up and put you to bed.”

“Why did you never tell me this?” He was a little annoyed.

She shrugged. “I didn’t want you to feel ashamed or in any way guilty. I wanted to protect you from yourself.”

There was a great lump in his throat. “You are…” He did not know how to say it. “Remarkable.” It was the only word he could think of.

Hawke laughed. “Why?” She sounded incredulous. “Because I take care of you?”

He swallowed, and looked away. He did not know why there were tears in his eyes. He mustered all his strength every day of his life to be strong, to never expose himself in all his raw vulnerability, but with her it all came spilling out as though his dam were cracked. His top layer stripped from him, he lay bare before her no matter how much he hid.

Fenris suddenly _needed_ her to know. He needed her to understand.

“I’ve…” He wasn’t sure where to start, but once he began to talk, he couldn’t stop himself as the words poured. “I’ve… been taken care of before. But not like… not the way you do.” Fenris shut his eyes, the shame bubbling in his chest but still powerless to stem the tide of his admission. “My Master, he… he cared for me. The way a man cares for a prized warhound, or a show-dog.” He sneered. “It was ingenuine, violent, invasive, and cruel, but it was all I knew, and... I relied on him.” He laughed hollowly, his expression flat. “I really was his pathetic dog. His little wolf. _Bah_.” He spat, his brow curling furiously but his eyes remaining shut.

Hawke put a hand on his arm, and he flinched as the pain flared up again. “You don’t have to talk about this if it’s too hard,” she said. "I know you said you didn't want to." She was so good to him. Too good. He didn’t deserve it.

He shook his head. “I don't, but I have to,” he insisted firmly. “Otherwise... I probably never will again.” The avalanche had come, and this was his only chance before he lost his nerve. He didn’t want to wake up next to Hawke one day years from now and realize she still knew none of what he’d gone through. It would be living a life built on secrets. He didn’t want that. He needed this now. It was crucial for him that she know.

“Alright,” she said, and she let her hand rest on the bed between them, touching his thigh just enough so that he could feel reassured by her presence.

The breath he drew rattled in his lungs, steeling him to confess. “Before I escaped, I… was nothing.. I was property. No more, and no less than a prized possession. Danarius used me at his whim in any way imaginable; as his bodyguard, as a weapon, decoration, furniture…” He swallowed hard, and fixed his eyes on a spot on the wall.  Then, finding himself very disconnected from his body, he went on mournfully, “I was also a toy for his more… _personal_ pleasures.”

The hand keeping the side of his leg company twitched slightly, but Hawke didn’t say anything. When he looked back at her, his heart shredded at the sight. The expression she wore was devastating. But even so, she did not speak, so he continued. “I… never wanted you to know exactly what he put me through. But we’ve gotten… closer over time, and… I don’t want these memories to haunt what we have. I want to be able to touch you and be touched by you - without the nagging terror of disobeying; without fear of punishment; without the ghost of his touch still clinging to my flesh, making me sick.” He scowled.

Hawke’s eyes had grown very wet. Fenris, however, felt very little. He reached out to touch her face, and she sniffed, nuzzling into his palm. The markings there ached, but it was worth it. “I’ve never been so glad a man is dead in my life,” she hissed suddenly, and despite himself, Fenris could not help but smile weakly. “I only regret that I cannot revive him now to murder him again myself.”

Smirking, he turned away from her, and went on. “The last time…” Fenris’ voice cracked as the images began to replay in his head. “The last time that he chose to put me to use… the last time before I was finally abandoned and made my escape… he drew lyrium from my flesh while he… while he…” He couldn’t say it. That would be too much. “Well. That is why… today...”

Flashes: bright, blinding, and painful. Hands in his hair, on his neck, on his chest; apologetic slave hands greasing his body in preparation; lips on his back as he lay face down, his hips raised and his legs spread to accommodate his Master, whose cruel laugh gusted across his skin like a warm, poisonous wind.

The string of memories bombarded him mercilessly, and he shook violently as they passed, sweating hard. It was simply too much to be flooded with so many memories at once, and it was all so agonizingly real to him. He squirmed where he sat, silently begging the Maker for it to stop. He had not noticed he’d closed his eyes again, but he opened them quickly once he realized it, as he struggled to regain a hold on reality. His breathing was very rapid and heavy, and his palms quite damp with sweat. He felt his heart would surely stop any moment; it was a terrible feeling, this strange full-body panic. It gripped his chest and made him question what was real.

Instinctively, he reached out and felt along Hawke’s cheek with one hand, touching her arm with the other. She let him caress her chastely without moving a muscle or saying a word. She understood he needed grounding; needed a reminder of what was real. She was so good to him. She was _too_ good for him.

“I love you,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence.

He winced slightly at the words, and released a tremulous sigh. Then, smiling sadly, he let his arms drop back to his sides. His heart was still pounding out of control in the wake of his visions, but he was suddenly quite distracted. "And you chose _this_ moment to tell me that?"

"You said it first," she teased, now blushing furiously. "When I was injured."

"When you were _dying_ , you mean," he corrected angrily, again feeling his heart twinge at the memory of her limp mangled body in his arms. Then he realized what she was saying. "Oh," he said quietly. "You... caught that, did you?"

She chuckled dryly. "Yes. And I was so glad you saved me, Fenris, because... well, I wouldn't want to have died without you knowing that I love you too."

Redness crept in splotches over Fenris' cheeks and ears, and he suddenly found his knees extremely interesting. "I..." He cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say." Uncertain that she even meant it, he didn't know what to think, let alone how to react.

“Then you don’t have to say anything," she told him plainly. "I'm just... so in love with you, and I'm honored that you feel you can be so honest with me. I'm sure it cannot be easy."

His wry smile was thin, and he made an exasperated face in agreement. "It's not," he admitted. "Surely you will now begin to see me differently. To know that I've... that he… Now that you know what my past consisted of, at least in part. I am prepared for it."

Hawke shook her head vehemently, and reached out to touch his face before stopping herself, only an inch from his cheek. She withdrew her hand, looking apologetic. "I could never think of you differently or judge you for those things. They were not your fault," she said breathlessly. "I love you, Fenris, and that transcends your past, for all its horrors. You _do_ know that what happened was not your fault... don't you?"

Pulse drumming madly in his ears, he scowled fiercely. "How can it not be? I had every chance to kill him," he confessed in a low hiss. "But... he took care of me. I loved him, in a way."

"That does not make it your fault," she snapped. She sounded tearful but stern, and she had gone very white. "You had no choice. You didn't know there was anything else out there for you."

"I know that now," he sighed. "I only wish my pain could follow that logic, as you do. It's just... hard. You must understand that all I've ever known is rules, commands, obedience, and punishment. _Everything_ was my fault, once. For survival's sake I had to get used to that - or else risk forgetting my place during a beating, and incur far worse wrath than whatever punishment was already due. The life I lived, Hawke… I was ultimately no better than the dirt on my Master’s boots, no matter how valuable a possession I was. That’s all I knew. And to me… it feels like I was born into it, for I have no memories preceding it. That’s not exactly an easy perspective to alter, Hawke.”

Hawke sniffed again, and clenched her hands into fists. "Oh, Fenris." She shook her head sympathetically. "I'm so sorry I brought all this up today when I got hurt. You should never have let me..."

"The alternative was letting you die, and that was not an option. What would you have done in my place?"

Pursing her lips, Hawke sat back. She looked miserable. It pained him. Even if his past was logically not his fault, _this_ certainly was.

"I... should not have put all of this on you," he said quietly, feeling his heart sink. "I'm sorry. We need not speak of it again." The elf pushed his silver hair out of his sad eyes, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Hawke sat up straight, her outstretched hand hovering uncertainly in the space between them as though unsure if it would be appropriate to try and stop him.

"Please," she said tensely. He did not look at her. "I'm glad you told me. Really. Don't beat yourself up about it. Stay, Fenris."

He flinched at her gentleness. It was foreign, and more uncomfortable to him than any lashing. "I'm sorry," he said again, and the depth of his voice quavered slightly. He was reminded regretfully of their first night together, when he'd left her. But this was different.  "I am not leaving you," he reassured her quietly. "That’s not happening again. This is just... I just... need to go."

And before she could say another word, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I should probably proof read this at some point...)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol consumption and vomiting. Strangely enough, the two are unconnected.

He did not know how he ended up at the mansion again, but the musty smell of mildew and rotted wood surrounded him, filling him and rousing him from his deep reverie. He sniffed angrily, hugging himself tight in the drafty hall as he stood aimlessly in the center of it. Tattered curtains and the rusted armor and bones of dead slavers kept him company here. Those corpses were not a comfort like they used to be.

There was a cellar of wine beneath his feet, however, and that was his comfort now. Over the years the supply had diminished significantly, but there was still a large selection due to his increasing number of trips to the Hanged Man. His pulse quickened at the hope of dulling the vivid memories, and numbing the ghost of Danarius on his skin.

Yes, he thought. It was the only thing he could think to do now, to warm the chill of the past. He needed to do something, anyway; standing here aimlessly made him feel useless.

The stacked rows of bottles were tempting. He piled several into his arms, cradling them tenderly as he climbed back up the rickety steps to the main landing.

Falling into a chair in the sitting room, he uncorked the first one. The wine burned his throat. He sucked it down straight from the bottle and drank it too fast, in heavy gulps. Expert at this as he was, Fenris consumed half the bottle in several massive swallows, then pulled it from his lips with a fierce grimace. His throat stung, but his chest felt warm and his mind a little softer.

Yet his Master’s face still burned in his memory; that smirk as he looked down at his pet; that lewd moan as Fenris bowed his head in dutiful servitude -

He felt sick. The last dregs of this bottle wound up painting the wall in a flurry, the shattered glass joining older shards to further decorate the untidy floor.

After staring at the mess for a minute in silence, he gave a resigned sigh, and reached for the next bottle in hopes of more success. With enough drink, he thought, he might finally kill his pain, and maybe even feel some semblance of normalcy again.

He could only hope.

 

* * *

 

 

Cursing, Hawke closed her eyes to draw a deep breath and calm herself. But her mind was blocked. She wasn’t sure she could cast even a simple spell in this heightened state of anxiety.  

Fenris' voice echoed in her head, and now exaggerated images of her lover being abused and raped swam around inside her like parasites, gnawing holes in her stomach and making her nauseous.

She felt sick with longing, wishing she could erase it all and give him a new life with new memories, new things to smile about; maybe a family.

She wished suddenly for her mother. Hawke was overwhelmed, furious that a mother would ever sell their child as Fenris’ mother had. Her heart ached for him, wanting a familial connection - wanting to give him that. This longing for her mother, she realized, was a reflection of what she wanted for him.

Rolling her eyes, Hawke imagined her mother would have told her that Fenris just needed her to be there for him, and that in time that constancy would give him the new life she wished for him.

Dropping her face Into her hands, she groaned. Her eyes were squeezed shut tightly as though this might help erase her fabricated visions of Fenris crying out in pain, Danarius clutching the man she loved with those filthy hands, hurting him, squeezing the will out of him, laughing despicably, forcing her sweet Fenris to his knees while he begged for it to stop...

Hawke’s stomach turned, and her eyes snapped open as she felt the unmistakable burn of sickness in her throat. She sat upright immediately. "Oh no," she groaned through clenched teeth, and as the sensation built, she leapt up to run clumsily to the waste bin across the room.

She clutched the sides of the bin, and was ill. Hawke’s neck and face ached with the awful pressure of it, and it burned the back of her tongue. When it passed, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve just as the tears came, harsh on her flushed cheeks and sharp in her tired eyes.

Her legs gave out, and she collapsed beside the bin on the floor, the sobs coming in violent heaves that hurt her chest and made her head pound.  

With a painful lurch, Hawke realized that most of what was boiling inside of her was guilt. She had not been there in his life before Kirkwall, she was never able to rescue him from Danarius, and now if it wasn't for her, he would not have had to relive it all today. With one altered decision - a few extra lyrium potions, maybe - this could have been prevented.

It was all her fault, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her sobs were painful and seemed endless. If only...

"Enchantment?"

She looked up through through a blurry haze of tears. "S- Sandal?" The boy was smiling at her sadly. It wasn't always clear what he did or did not understand, but his face told her he at least recognized that she was in pain.

“Enchantment!”

"Leave Mistress Hawke alone, my boy!" Bodahn was scurrying into the bedroom after his son, looking flustered. "I am so sorry, my lady, I didn’t - " He looked around, spotted her on the ground, and threw his hands in the air as he rushed forward. "By the stone, my lady! Are you alright? I saw Master Fenris leaving earlier and I thought - " He looked suddenly very disgruntled. "He hasn't left you again, has he? That boy, I swear..."

Hawke shook her head, pushing herself to sit up again as she wiped her face. "No, no. It's nothing like that. He just... I think I really hurt him today. I..." She looked down at her hands. “I’m so confused.”

To her surprise, Bodahn knelt in front of her. "You don't look at all well, Mistress. And I can't imagine you did anything to hurt that boy. He just seems an unhappy sort as it is."

She chuckled in spite of herself. "I'm fine, Bodahn. Fenris has more pain than I will ever understand. And today I... well I inadvertently triggered some of that pain, bringing it all back to the surface."

"Inadvertently?" The dwarf shook his head. "Not on purpose, then. Sounds to me, Mistress, like the culprit here is his past, not you. If he’s got that much sadness, it was probably going to come up eventually anyway. Is _he_ blaming you as well?"

She sniffled. "Not to my face."

"Oh, I doubt he is blaming you one bit, my lady. It's his past that has him in pain, not you. The boy clearly loves you. Any fool can tell. If he's hurting, it doesn't matter what's at fault, does it? It’s the hurt he feels right now that needs tending to, isn’t it? He probably needs you to be there for him, not caught up in worrying who’s to blame."

Hawke blinked slowly, finally making eye contact through the silent tears. "Y'know, Bodahn, it's amazing. I always like having you around, but sometimes - " She smiled. "Well, you’re very easy to talk to, my good man. It’s like having my mother back in a way."

"Oh, my lady!" He went beet red, and bowed so low she was surprised his nose didn't touch the floor. "You honor me too much, Mistress! Too much! Your mother was a beautiful, delightful woman and I... why, I'm just...!" He sputtered, clearly overwhelmed by the compliment. She laughed and put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright, Bodahn. You're just being very kind to me and I appreciate it."

"Enchantment!" They both glanced around. Sandal was looking into the waste bin, shaking his head and frowning.

Bodahn hurried forward. "Oh, allow me to take care of that for you, my lady! Yes! Don't you worry about anything." He took the bin, and bowed his way from the room. Sandal followed slowly, but stopped in the doorway to turn back to Hawke.

With a sad smile, he leaned toward her and whispered, " _Enchantment_ ," then shuffled out of sight.

Alone again with her thoughts, Hawke sighed. She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them, frowning to herself.

This... was a lot to take in for her, to be sure, but Fenris - he had _lived_ it, and now he carried it with him, suffering in perfect silence until today. Her heart thudded painfully as the guilt gripped her again, but it was pointless. What purpose would beating herself up serve?

Bodahn had been right. No matter how much she ached inside for him, what mattered was Fenris. She needed to remind him that she could carry his weight and still love him. That was what mattered now. “ _I should not have put all of this on you_ ,” he had said. No. She couldn't stand it. He needed to know that she could be his safety and his rock; that she could contain what he could not.

Her mind made up, Hawke stood shakily, and gathered herself. With a brief goodbye to her Dwarven roommates, she left the estate at practically a running pace. She felt she could not get to him fast enough.

Fenris needed support now, and she would not keep him waiting for it a minute longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When will I learn to stop posting things before editing them? When?? Also, yes, I love Bodahn and Sandal. A lot. Any excuse to stick them in a fic, and I'll take it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for significant alcohol consumption, and some descriptions of abuse and rape. Sweet Maker, I really am just a sucker for this terrible traumatic angst, aren't I?

The next swig did not burn quite so much. He grinned sloppily to himself, holding the bottle at arm’s length to gauge how much was left. Not much. How many had he consumed tonight? The number was lost on him. He sat back in his moth eaten armchair, feeling his back sink pleasantly into the cushion. His fingers and toes were not as sensitive to touch as they had been. His head felt full of air.

Fenris laughed quietly as the bottle slipped from his fingers. The bottle did not smash, to his surprise, but rolled some feet away, the wine flowing from its narrow opening like a red river. He was reminded of the way Hawke’s wound had gushed with blood.

Frowning, Fenris thought on it. The memory was there, and he knew it was a bad one, yet the responding sensation in his chest was very dull. He had done it, it seemed: he had reached the point past caring.

He could still recall Danarius buried inside of him, and could recount the way it felt, but his body was numb to reliving it, and the emotions were separated. He knew facts, not feelings, and that was the way he liked it. He was a refugee from the self, and the bottle was his shelter.

Dimly, he registered the sound of his front door creaking open, and stood. Hyper-vigilance demanded he remain armed, so his sword was within reach, and he kept an eye on it as he swayed on the spot, waiting.

Then, her voice. Oh, Maker, that voice. “Fenris? Are you here?”

He hummed softly to himself, a gentle purring breath, and flopped back into the armchair, which swallowed him. “Hawke,” he said loudly. He couldn’t tell if he’d shouted or not.

She seemed to hear him, though, because a moment later, she appeared in the doorway to the sitting room. He let out a low chuckle, smiling at her lovingly, but her attention had turned to his surroundings. She looked horrified, gazing at the empty bottles and broken glass strewn across the floor. Stepping over the puddle of wine, which was now seeping into the floorboards, she said, “Maker, Fenris. You’re practically a brewery.”

The elf laughed heartily. “Thank you,” he said with a sneer, gesturing her to sit in the chair opposite him. She sat, but she looked concerned, and kept glancing at the wreckage around them in mild disgust.

“What happened here?”

He looked around. “I thought that’d be obvious,” he snapped.

“Clearly you are shit-faced,” she asserted, “but I meant the furniture.”

“What?” Fenris blinked slowly at her, then looked again. The coffee table lay in tatters, and a lamp was overturned. There also appeared to be several wide gashes in the walls, one of which seemed stained around the edges by a suspiciously dark red color. He looked down. The knuckles of his right hand were torn and bloody. He had almost forgotten, though it had all happened not two hours ago. “Oh.” He shrugged. “Was angry,” he stated nonchalantly.

“Why?”

He glared. “Me,” he slurred, gesturing emphatically into the air. “For making you listen to my dribble. For being weak enough to divulge my depraved past to you. For letting it all happen in the first place.” He had not meant to say the last bit. Yet there it was.

“Stop it,” Hawke growled, and he looked her dead in the eye. She was so beautiful, if a little blurry and slanted. “That’s why I’m here.”

“ _You_ stop it,” he spat, sneering angrily.

Looking taken aback, she sat back. “Stop what?”

He hiccuped. “Spinning,” he said, laughing a little under his breath.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m serious, Fenris. I need you to know what it means when I tell you I love you.”

Fenris scoffed. He was very flush, and she was outrageously beautiful. His eyes raked her figure. She did not seem to notice.

“It is not your fault,” she told him gently. He was silent, and felt suddenly very small beside her words, which filled him, caressing him from the inside. “And I will never, ever think of you as any less than you’ve always been to me - the man I love.” He made a disgusted noise, and threw his head back in the chair, staring intently at the ceiling. “I know you, Fenris. Whatever happened in your past, you’re still you. It’s part of you, and I love all of you, as you've always been, dark past and all.” His eyes were strangely wet, though he felt very flat inside. How bizarre. “And especially since it seems like you can’t love yourself with that part of you still in there - I’m here to do it for you. For as long as you can’t, and beyond that.”

“Stop.” Fenris found his voice cracking. His face was rosy in patches, and he suddenly felt confused and lumbering, unsure what to do with his hands. He looked around. There was one last full bottle, unopened, on the floor beside his armchair. He leaned over the armrest and scooped it up. The motion made his head spin, and he had to close his eyes and grip his knees in order to regain a sense of balance.

Hawke sighed, and crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t need that.”

The cork popped loudly, and he raised the bottle in her direction. “That’s what you think,” he sneered, and pressed the rim to his lips, taking a deep swallow. “You’d need it too if you were me.”

“Damn it, Fenris. I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that made her eyes widen. “What I’ve endured is beyond words. It is a wound beyond any that bleeds. You throw around such pretty words but have you never thought of it, truly?” He felt anger bubbling under his skin as his volume increased and his sense declined.

“What do you mean…?”

His eyes flashed, and he stood in a rush of fury, overwhelmed by the sudden need to lash out at her. “You say you’ll love me, past and all, but you don’t even know. You didn’t see. Have you never stopped to imagine it? To imagine the things he did to me?” Her lips parted in surprise, and she looked away.

“Don’t,” she squeaked.

“You get to tell me _don’t_ ,” he hissed resentfully. “But I don’t have that fucking luxury.”

Fenris approached her unstably, spitting with every word, barely more than an inch from her face as he leaned over her. “Do you dare imagine it, or would even the smallest taste of it burn like poison?” He was fuming. “Witness what I've been through, and tell me again that I don’t need to drink. You can't, though. So imagine it. Imagine your precious _Fenris_ , exactly as you see me here before you, but dangling from the ceiling by my wrists - whipped until I was bloody and broken, or beaten into unconsciousness.” She closed her eyes, trying to shut him out, but he was not allowing it. His breath was hot on her, and he reeked of alcohol as he pinched her face in his firm grip. He had her stuck, forcing her head to face him, but her eyes stayed closed. “Can you picture me bound and starved? For that was a common punishment.” He laughed hollowly. “I was skin and bones, and still expected to serve. Ha! Or would you rather not think of it? Have you had enough?”

Hawke finally opened her eyes again, searching his face, mirroring the pain he should be feeling. She looked devastated, but was silent, and he needed her to suffer more; he needed her to hurt with him. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t. It wasn’t fair that he was alone.

“Would you rather pretend I was _not_ the object of my Master’s personal whims? Are you glad you never saw me punished? Raped into compliance, ‘til I had nothing left in me but obedience?” Fenris was miles away from his own voice. It barely felt like he was speaking at all. He scowled, glad that these memories could not touch him then. “Does it bother you to think that - at the time - I was sure I deserved it? To think that when I’d plead for mercy, I would often offer my body to him? I was pathetic. Is that not the Fenris you know, or... would you rather pretend it was a different man, for your own comfort?” The sentences flowed together, a little disjointed, and he could not stop them. The dam to his rage had opened.

“Stop,” she breathed.

“ _That_ is the reality I face,” he growled at her, his words slippery and difficult to understand. “And that is the _filth_ you allow into your bed. Because that… that… person? No, that… _slave_ \- that _is_ me. It’s not pretty, but it’s still my every day. It’s not over for me. I don’t know when it will be. It is… so loud in here.” He let go of her, and threw himself back into the chair, clutching his own head in distress. “For a long time, it was quieter… but after today...”

She was ghost white, and there was a tear running down her cheek that met her chapped upper lip as it fell. She did not seem to be breathing, but was shaking her head slightly and staring blankly as though in a horrified trance. He sighed as his heart clenched slightly. “But... only you have ever taken the noise away completely. Only you…” He paused, his stomach churning as the world spun particularly fast. “You...  Oh, Maker, you’re beautiful.” His train of thought was lost, and his attention flipped to the swell of her breasts and the slender length of her neck, teasing him just by being there.

Trembling in the wake of his disturbing narrative, she said quietly, “You’re drunk.”

Fenris snorted. “Y’ don’t say?”

“You would not be saying these things if you were not.”

She was right, of course, but he did not care now. His head was still so light and faraway. None of it mattered. There were no consequences.

“You’ve been through more than I can understand, but I don’t believe that getting piss drunk is the only way you can cope. Do you honestly believe that can erase it all?”

“Not erase,” he slurred. “Doubt anything can erase. Just numb. Well - “ He smirked. “As I said, you can erase it a little. When you touch me. It makes me forget his touch. At least for a while.”

Hawke blushed. The elf licked his lips, something predatory stirring in him as a thought suddenly occurred to him. He got to his feet, unsteady as he took another large gulp of wine. It stung the back of his tongue, and he grimaced before balancing the bottle carefully on the floor again beside his chair. “Where are you going?” She stood, too, but he put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down.

“I’m not,” he said. Then, without thinking, he dropped to his knees. Her eyes widened as he knelt before her. “ _You_ can make me forget,” he said hungrily, his hands rested on his lover’s knees. She looked positively horrified. “Help me,” he purred. “Touch me. _Please_.”

She leaned forward, cupping his face lovingly. “What do you think you’re doing, Fenris?” Her voice was soft, but he barely heard her. He was staring at her lips.

With a sneer, he craned his neck, bridging the few inches between them to press his mouth against hers. She gasped in surprise, but melted quickly under his warm tongue. He slinked a hand into her hair, the other roaming up her thigh, parting her legs. She was quivering, and kept pulling her face away from his, looking hesitant. He captured her lips again repeatedly, gruffly pulling her back into the sloppy kiss several times, but when she let out a loud whine of protest, he finally stopped to growl in frustration. “Come now, Hawke. I know that you desire me. You have always made that very clear.”

“Of course I do, my love,” she told him, looking deeply uncomfortable. “It’s not that.” He teased the buckle of her trousers, then through the fabric he traced circles around the sensitive apex of her legs. She shuddered, breathless.

“Then what?” He planted a kiss to her thigh, his hand now moving up her torso, tickling a trail up her stomach, beneath her tunic. Her abdomen twitched anxiously at his touch, and she flinched as he found her breast, pinching her nipple exactly the way he knew she liked. She seemed confused at this, biting her lip but with a hand on his forearm as though warring with herself. Then she finally pulled his arm away.

His brow furrowed. “What is wrong? Do I not please you? I am very well trained. That should not be so.” Some very distant part of himself, the faraway echoes of a sober man, was screaming with regret for saying that. But the conscious part of him was uninhibited, regressive, and enraged at the world. He had said it without thinking, but her look of disgust sent a thrill through his system. He would use this. He would hurt her more. He needed to.

Fenris adapted a dramatically seductive air. “I could be anything you want,” he breathed. “You will never find another as obedient as I. You can see for yourself how well my Master trained me. Would you like that?” He batted his eyes, and gave her a sultry pout before burying his head in her lap, nuzzling into her groin. Much as he had expected, she automatically dug her fingers into his silver mane, and pulled him away from her. He laughed as she held him at arm’s length, his neck thrown back, scalp aching under her grasp. “ _He_ loved to pull my hair, too,” he hissed deliberately, and she let go of him with a tiny gasp. He rolled his neck, and allowed himself a lewd moan as he did. She grimaced. “Would you have me show you what else my Master liked? What things I would do for him? Would you have me perform for you in the same way? Would you fuck me as he did?” She held her breath, her eyes wide. "Do you wonder if your touch will _ever_ wipe away the lasting sensations of my Master's cock?" Her body tensed in total shock, but he didn't stop there. "He was my _first_ , after all."

Poor Hawke looked like she might really be sick, one hand over her mouth and the other clutching her chest. He reveled in it. “Let me please you as I pleased him,” he whispered, his lip curling into a filthy grin. “Let me submit to you, _Mistress_.”

“ _Maker_ , don’t you _dare_ call me that. Fenris…” He ignored her as he chuckled darkly to himself.

“You’ll love what I can provide,” he rumbled, slurring his syllables heavily. “If it was good enough for _him_ , then surely…”

“ _Stop it!_ ”

He averted his eyes submissively, but could not contain the glee from creeping into his expression. “Am I not still the same Fenris you know? Is this really a man you could love? Or… have I gone too far already? Have I stepped _out of line_ , Mistress?” She let out a groan at the title, and he tittered, bowing his head. His sadistic mirth reached new heights as he said breathily, “If you are to punish me, Mistress, _please_ be merciful.”

“Fucking _stop this_ \- “

Fenris bowed lower, until his forehead touched the floor, an inch from her toes in a gesture of deepest reverence. “Do with me as you see fit, Mistress. I am yours.”

Hawke stood immediately at this, having reached her breaking point it seemed. She stumbled backwards in her haste to remove herself from his bizarre masochistic play, and the chair scooted back several inches in her wake.“Maker’s breath!” She shrieked tremulously. “Fenris! _Stop it_! Snap _out_ of it!”

The elf looked up at her unsteadily as he pulled out of the bow, sitting back on his heels. “As you say, Mistress.” This time, he found the phrase spoken automatically, and without intent to wound. It didn’t feel right. Like an old instinct scraping his surface.

Hawke broke into a moan of anguish. The sound trailed into a dry sob as she wrung her hands in horror. “ _Stop this!_ Fenris! Get _up!_ ”

The floor was becoming rolling hills under his feet. "I’m…ha... a little confused,” he breathed. His voice was choked and distant.

“Yeah? So am I! What the fuck do you think you are trying to do here?” She sounded rather shrill.

“I just want you to _understand_. I just want you to know who I really was… who I really  _am_.” Uncertainty was suffocating him, and the progression of time no longer made sense. His entire life was now a strange mesh of images and sensations from both past and present, all happening at once, blinding his ability to think straight. “This filth is what I am,” he spat. “Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not.”

“Get _up,_ I said!” She was furious, and he felt a strong pair of hands hook beneath his arms to tug him to his feet.

There were two of her swimming before his eyes, and he blinked rapidly but it made little difference. He swayed dizzily, but she held him firmly. “You are too good and sweet to love a depraved animal like me,” he rasped, head hanging to his chest defeatedly. “You did not... ” His voice was so soft and light, it was barely recognizable, but it cracked as he spoke. “You did not use me, even as I gave myself to you. But...” He exhaled a brief laugh. “My Master always said I was... irresistible.” He rolled his eyes. It made him even dizzier.

“You are so drunk,” she snapped, looking a little green. “ _Way_ too drunk to know what you want or even what you’re doing, Fenris. If I were to try anything when you are like this, I would be taking advantage of you in a state where you don’t even know that this isn’t what you want. That’s exactly what Danarius did to you. It’s like you’re trying to repeat your past all over again.” He blinked at her slowly, trying to follow her speech. It wasn't easy. “I’m not going to help you do that. I want only to help contain your suffering when you cannot do it yourself, not to add fuel to the fire so you can keep living in your comfortable misery. It’s not healthy.”

“Wh- what?” He clutched her shoulders, holding himself upright. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in the piece of his heart that was very numb, he felt a spark of… something. Warm. Held. Comforted. “I… should sit.”

She laughed gently, a little exasperated. “Yes.” She lowered him into his chair. “What you really need, though,” she croaked, “is to get some sleep.”

Fenris snorted, letting his eyes close as he leaned his head back into the cushion, which seemed to envelop him. “Sleep,” he muttered. “What’s the point? When I sleep, I just end up…” He grunted. Gravity was not kind, and his body felt like lead. “... _Remembering_.”

Hawke breathed a deep sigh of relief moments later as the elf went suddenly limp, and a great snore filled the room. She sat back down in the chair across from him, and crossed her legs, watching her lover sleep.

She was shaken. As she settled into her seat to get comfortable, she realized just how fast her heart was beating. _“As you say, Mistress."_ The words rattled around in her head, and paired with the sight of him kneeling at her feet, they were truly haunting. She was deeply disturbed by his aggressive behavior, and would talk to him about it eventually, but that was not for now. That could wait until this terrible period passed, assuming he came out of it alive.

Suddenly she found herself wishing with a burning passion that she had relished the moment of Danarius’ death more, so she could recall it with more satisfaction now that she had a fuller picture of the damage he’d inflicted upon her lover.

Fenris was all alone in his experience, and he did not believe in the future when the past still kept its claws in him. Hawke scowled as she contemplated this, but she understood it. She was the closest person he had in his life; it stood to reason that he wanted to bring her down with him, just to soothe his lonely heart. It was unfortunate that the drink had made him irrational, and brought this out in such a ferocious way, but it was over now. Tomorrow would be another day, and maybe then she could prove to him that she wasn’t going anywhere.

She curled into herself, frowning as she watched Fenris drool. What he wanted was for her to realize exactly what a huge impact the past did have on who he was. It had scarred him, and it was only fair that she recognize and embrace it for all its horrors.

But perhaps he was right. Perhaps she did see him differently now. She smiled sadly as she thought of it. Now that she knew more details of his past, she did not see him as the same elf she always had; now she saw a man stronger than she could have ever imagined possible. His power was unmatched, and he was all the more beautiful just for surviving and remaining such a good  man.  He was an unstoppable force of nature, and she loved him more than ever.

Yet even the strongest people could be temporarily disabled by trauma. So many years later, the pain could still bleed through, no matter how well defended the individual might be. But that strength is never gone, and with it, survival is certain. Hawke smiled. In time, Fenris would heal. She had that hope. At the very least, his reopened wound might one day become just a gnarled scar again, and the pain might dull. That was all she could really aim for, but it was enough.

Clinging to that hope, and to the knowledge of Fenris’ resiliency, Hawke let her eyes flicker. Her vision of the gorgeous dreamer curled up in front of her slipped in and out of focus a few times, before he finally vanished as sleep took her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me (an art therapist): casually turns an angst fic into a psychology lesson.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was influenced very much by experience, school-type knowledge, and by my observations of friends and also clients who are trauma survivors.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote and rewrote this chapter so many times, I have no idea what I'm doing anymore. I honestly hate the final product, especially the pacing and structure, but it is what it is, and I just can't keep looking at it anymore or I'll drive myself crazy. Gotta move on. 
> 
> But, ultimately, however I (or you, tbh) feel about it, the chapter is about choice and consent and recognizing how those things are not just the responsibility of the trauma survivor. Support, empathy, and understanding are so important to an individual's healing. It also needs to be recognized that a trauma survivor is not broken. They may feel broken, but their bodies are their own, and though they may have new and very specific limitations, they are fine just as they are. Those limitations need to be respected, and are nothing to be ashamed of. It's all part of the process, however long that process might be.

A low groan woke her with a jolt. Her neck gave a roaring twinge, and she winced, massaging the sore muscle as best she could. Sleeping in chairs - never a good idea. She should know that by now.

Bleary-eyed, Hawke looked around, yawning uncontrollably. A beam of sunlight was visible from behind the tattered curtains, but the room was still quite dark. Then her gaze fell on Fenris. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his strong hands were balled into quaking fists. He was shivering, his teeth gritted.

She stood stiffly, and approached his seat to kneel beside it. “Fenris,” she whispered. “Hey. You’re okay.” He flinched, and whimpered. Her heart dropped. “Fenris,” she said a little louder. “Wake up, my love. You’re safe.”

The elf’s silver hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and she brushed some of it behind his ear, sighing sadly as he thrashed.

Placing a hand over his fist, she said again, “Fenris. You’re safe here. Wake up. Please.”

This time, he jerked forward, flinging her arm away from his with a roar. It was a bellow like that of a frightened animal, and eerily close to a sob. His eyes were open now, but he was staring straight ahead of him with a misty, faraway expression. He was still shaking, his breath coming out in rapid wheezes.. Rubbing her now sore wrist, she tried again. “F- Fenris?”

He blinked very slowly. Once, twice, then he looked around. His face softened when he saw her, but only for a moment. Then, he winced violently. “Oh, Maker, why?” He clutched his head, moaning in a rage, and bent forward to put his head between his knees. She grinned. Now this was a pain she could understand.

“I couldn’t even say how much you drank last night, Fenris,” she laughed. “But it was enough. I’m hardly surprised you’re hungover.”

“Fuck,” he grumbled, and Hawke chuckled.

She reached out, then stopped before her hand met his hair. “May I touch your hair?” she asked timidly, scrunching up her face in uncertainty.

He did not respond for a moment, then he nodded. She sunk her fingers into his unwashed white mop, and combed them through the mess, pouting a little as she struggled with his tangles. He purred as she did this, the tension visibly easing from his shoulders. Sitting on the armrest of his chair, she continued to brush through his hair with her fingers. “Do you want to tell me what's up?” she asked. Fenris shrugged.

Still staring at the floor, he spoke. “I had… a nightmare.”

She pursed her lips sadly. “I figured.”

“Hadriana,” he hissed. “That _bitch_ , and her… fucking whip. Sometimes she would magically set the thing on fire before she punished me, so every lash came with a little something extra.” He spat angrily. “Sadistic fucking _whore_. I haven’t felt… not in a long time.” He reached a hand over his shoulder to touch his upper back with trembling fingers. “It was so real,” he whispered, shaking his head. Then he cleared his throat, and sat a little more upright. “I used to have these… dreams… almost nightly for a long time after I escaped. They got better, though. Mostly since…” He looked up at her, meeting her eye for the first time since waking. He smiled warmly, and she was moved to see that it reached his eyes. She returned it all too happily. “Well.” He shrugged again. “It’s been better.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” Hawke said, playing with the tip of his ear. He glared playfully at her. “But... “ She stopped, and cupped his cheek. “I’m sorry you had another nightmare just now.” Her chest tightened. “I’m sorry it’s all been coming back lately. I’m just… so sorry.”

“Do not give me your pity,” he snarled. His cheeks were turning pink again. “That’s not why I am confessing these things to you. I tell you this, because I… because you should know.”

“It’s not pity,” she sighed grumpily, her hands dropping back to her sides and leaving his scalp feeling suddenly empty. “It’s guilt.”

Fenris’ brow furrowed deeply. “Guilt?”

“Fenris,” she said flatly, the exasperation plain in her pointed glare. “I am the reason you were triggered this badly. If I hadn’t been irresponsible in battle, or had brought more poultices… or if I’d even brought Anders with us… you would never have felt the need to…” She stopped to swallow back the lump in her throat and blink back the sting of more threatening tears.

The elf shook his head firmly, looking mildly disturbed. “Don’t you dare blame yourself,” he said furiously, then he took her hands in his. She looked surprised at the contact, but he held onto her tightly. “I would do it all again,” he insisted, and he meant it.

"You cannot tell me you do not blame me at all," she sighed. "I know you are at least somewhat angry with me, on some level. And it's okay. I understand."

His heart plummeted, confused. "What do you...?"

"I was not there for you," she explained mournfully. "I could not stop what Danarius did to you, and then because of me, you relived it. It makes sense."

He recalled last night's rage. "If I blame you," he muttered, "I am not aware of doing so." Why was his mind so damn complicated?

“If blame must be placed, blame my Master.” Immediately, he closed his eyes in shame, fury washing over him. His pulse was thundering in his ears as he reopened his eyes, seething at himself. “Blame _Danarius_ ,” he corrected with a hiss. “And all the other magisters. Blame Hadriana, for torturing me. Blame Danarius’ friends and colleagues who poked and prodded me like a plaything; his fellow magisters who spoke about me amongst themselves as though I could not hear them; as though I was just part of the decor - because I _was_." His voice cracked slightly. "Blame my family for selling me into that life, knowing full well what they were doing. Blame Tevinter for maintaining slavery as legal practice. But do not ever blame yourself. My reaction to you last night was irrational, and I apologize. I hope you do not take it to mean that I knowingly blame you."

“I am surprised you even remember last night," she laughed. "And, y’know, maybe I'm not to blame - but neither are you, and you realizing that is so much more important to me than anything I'm feeling. But…” She shrugged. “Maybe by recognizing where we have been laying the blame, we can start to finally do something about it. Maybe accepting that you are angry with me - well, maybe it can help you start to understand why you're actually angry at yourself. And that… well, isn’t that how you can begin to forgive yourself, too? Just by starting with the understanding bit?"

He stared at her in amazement, the color in her pale cheeks rising steadily the longer he glared.

Then his expression crumbled slowly. His resolve weakened. She was wiser than he could have ever imagined.  Finally he cleared his throat, and said, “I haven’t actually said it yet since you lay dying in my arms yesterday, have I?” She tilted her head curiously as he licked his lips, drawing a steadying breath. “I love you, Hawke.”

The fondness and devotion in her expression was infectious. He felt warm, deep in his chest, blanketed from the inside out by her love. Unthinking, he leaned on her arm, and breathed in her scent when she snuck her hand back into his hair. She smelled strongly like herself, having slept in a little ball in this stuffy mansion with him, but it was pleasant to him. He smiled, nuzzling into her and inhaling her more. His head throbbed, but her closeness comforted him, making his dreadful headache somewhat more bearable. The way she played with his hair, too, sent delighted shivers down his spine.

For the first time since he’d given Hawke his lyrium, he could not feel Danarius’ rough hands on him. For just one glorious moment, everything was completely… normal. He was just a man in love with a beautiful woman - sporting a perfectly average man’s hangover. He grinned uncontrollably through his headache, and tried to hide his face, but she spotted it anyway. She touched his chin gently, and tilted his head up to face her. Then she smirked, and to his great surprise, slipped into his lap.

“I love you too, you big dummy,” she sighed, shaking her head a little as she searched his face. They were silent for a minute, staring at each other in comfortable, understanding silence. But her eyes were wet, and her brow slightly furrowed. He didn’t like it. He wanted her to be happy.

Without thinking about it first, he kissed her. Her lips were firm and uncertain. He could feel her body tense against him, and sharply pulled away. “Should I not…?”

“No, please, do,” she reassured him. “It’s just… about that? The physical thing? I don’t know what is okay for you right now. That’s… my own failing, I promise. There is no shame in any discomfort you feel.” He winced automatically at her words, feeling dreadfully ashamed anyway - but she was right, as she so often was. “I also keep thinking about our first time,” she said. “How you focused only on me. How submissive you were. How you panicked afterwards.” He swallowed as the memory returned to him as well. He remembered that mindset. He’d had no idea how else it was done, because before that day, Fenris had only ever been a slave, and never a mutual lover. Making love was a foreign language to him, one that took him a long time to learn. “It’s a little clearer to me now, why you behaved that way, and why it took you so long to move passed it."

Her fingers traced circles on the back of his neck, and he shivered. “Yes,” he breathed. “You were so kind to me. And…” He smiled again. “We certainly figured it out in the end, didn’t we?” His mouth twitched suggestively, and she giggled.

“You’re not wrong,” she agreed.

“Please kiss me,” he whispered, green eyes glistening in the dim light as they lingered on her lips. “Be gentle, but… please kiss me.”

Hawke obliged him, and he felt a surge of something sweet in his veins, like sunlight made liquid. Her tongue was gentle, but firm - reassuring in its normalcy. She was so careful with him, touching him as though he were fragile. His cheeks burned. Then she smiled against his mouth, and laughed airily. “You taste like wine and morning breath,” she whispered.

He laughed. It felt nice to do so. “So?” He raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged, and pressed her mouth to his again, a little more aggressively this time, but it was not forceful or hard. He sunk into it, happily tasting her, sighing breathlessly every time their lips broke the rhythm.

Fenris felt her hand traveling up his side. The markings beneath his shirt prickled, but the ache mingled with the pleasant sensations of his arousal, and it felt good. Maker, how he had missed this.

When her palm came to touch his chest and her other moved from his hair down to the back of his neck to press him closer, he moaned instinctively, a sound that shocked them both a little. She smirked against his lips, and he went even redder. “Maker, Fenris,” she laughed quietly. “We’ve got to stop this, or I’m going to be no help to you anymore.”

“You are always helpful,” he insisted in a low growl. “You give me… everything.” She swallowed, still panting in the wake of his kiss.

“I just mean…” She grimaced playfully, looking mildly ashamed, and closed her eyes. Then she opened one to spy him apprehensively as she said, “I’m getting turned on, y’know.”

He laughed, a low chuckle that shook through her, still draped across his knees. “You are not alone in that, Hawke,” he assured her, sounding amused. “There is no need to assume that I can’t… that I don’t want…” He looked away, flashes of last night suddenly coming back to him. “Ugh.” He shook his aching head. “I may be a little… messed up right now... but I still want you. I always want you, Hawke.”

“Then talk to me,” she said plainly. “You’re doing so well, telling me all of this, being so honest.” His heart soared. “If you want us to still be... active, I guess… then when it comes down to it, I need you to tell me exactly what you want, and what you need. I will never do anything without your explicit permission. I swear it.”

A lump formed in his throat. In their past, he had been pretty clear with her about his physical limitations without quite explaining why. She knew he needed softness, gentleness, and that he needed to feel somewhat in control. Things had been good between them sexually, if a little tense sometimes. She had given him the opportunity to discover who he was in his body, and what joy it could bring to experience his own arousal. He could never thank her enough for that.

Now she knew everything. He wasn't sure where to begin anymore, as though everything he'd learned had been flushed away by his rekindled pain. It made him angry. “I need you,” he croaked, suddenly a little light headed. He sounded far away. “I want you, Hawke. I want you… to touch me. It will be comforting to know that I… still can.”

Eyes narrowing uncertainly, she asked, “You mean _now?_ Are you certain you want this, Fenris?”

“Yes.” He sounded impatient, but his gratitude was plain. She looked hesitant, but he insisted. “Please,” he begged.

So she kissed him again - slow and wet, her tongue tasting deep in the cavern of his mouth. He felt filled, and his heart seemed to swell with joy at the invasion. It felt nothing like the intrusiveness of Danarius’ body. This was something else entirely. This was bliss, and it was elating to realize he could still feel so good.

She shifted in his lap, and he was startled at the movement, pulling his neck back to look at her. She grinned as she slipped off of him, almost apologetically. “Tell me if this is okay,” she whispered. Then - to his great shock - she sank to her knees with a muffled thump.

His mouth fell open. He could not think or breathe or think or move. He felt paralyzed by the sight of her there, kneeling at his feet. She looked a little nervous at his lack of a response. “Fenris?” she asked cautiously, putting a hand on his knee. “Is this okay?”

There were no words. He nodded dumbly, eyes growing heavy and dark with longing. She smiled shyly, and peeled his legs apart. He had not realized he was keeping his thighs clenched together in shock, but he was able to relax under her touch. She scooted between his legs, hands trailing up his thighs. His mind was pleasantly fuzzy, and as though from a great distance, he recalled kneeling in that exact position before his Master. He had never been on the other end of such an arrangement, and it scared him. “What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I want you to feel pleasure. Just to feel it. Without giving anything in return. I want you to take from me this time, and feel wanted. Worshiped.”

“That… is a slave’s place,” he told her shakily. She looked unfazed by this. “I have only ever seen slaves and whores kneel this way. You would serve me... as I served him?” he whispered darkly, his eyes glossy. She shook her head, her lips pursed.

“It's nowhere near the same thing. This is not a duty for me as it was for you. This is me giving to you, because I love you.” Her hands hovered over his waistband. He sucked in a nervous breath, but she was extremely patient and cautious. “May I undress you?”

He took a few long breaths, and she waited - patient and beautiful and everything he did not deserve. He felt choked up. “For me to be bowed to... for me to feel the kind of power he felt, I... I don’t… deserve…”

“Yes,” she said sternly, giving him a scolding eye. “You do. What you feel will be nothing like what he felt when he did those things to you. He was not capable of love or pleasure the way you are. I love you, and you are so much better than him. Better than you realize.”

With a sad half smile, he sighed slowly, shakily. Fenris reached out to touch her hair, and she beamed at his caress. He gaped, almost disbelieving, at how happy she was on her knees before him, and was touched by how vehemently she insisted on pleasing him. It moved him almost to a breaking point. Then, finally, he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I trust you.” And he meant it.

“Tell me,” she reminded him. “You have to tell me what to do.”

With a shuddering breath, he practically moaned the words, “Please undress me, Hawke. Maker, _please._ ”

Hawke’s hands were gentle and slow as they went to his breeches, undoing the tie with great care. She planted the most delicate kisses on his stomach as she did, and he found that he was trembling slightly.

“Lift your hips,” she told him, and he obeyed automatically. Her soft fingers pulled his breeches down past his hips, over the curve of his backside, and down his legs. She giggled as she tugged them down, and the sound was so infectious, Fenris could not help but smile with her. He was lost in her gentleness.

She trailed her lips along the markings on his inner thighs. They were so sensitive, and it felt unusually pleasurable. He gulped, watching her, and their eyes locked. “You are so strong,” she sighed, “and you are the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I cannot believe how lucky I am just to know you - let alone to have you all to myself.”

Her words made his heart unusually tender, touching a part of him he never knew was there. He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. When he opened his mouth, all that came out was a strained whimper.

She planted rows of soft kisses up and down each of his thighs, holding him firmly by the hips. The sight of her there sent tendrils of arousal through him, and it only deepened when she lingered over the bulge in his smallclothes. “May I remove your shirt?” she asked gently. He did not respond, but instead removed it himself. She tittered as he threw the garment aside. “May I touch you, Fenris?”

“Please, yes,” he croaked. Her hands were ecstasy, dancing along the glowing lines of his abdomen, and tracing the shape of his prominent ribs. He shivered and gasped when they slipped down to his hips again, fingering the top of his smalls now.

“May I…?”

He didn’t let her finish. “Please,” he begged. He was half hard, and more aroused than he thought he would even still be capable of.

The cloth slipped down easily, and he lifted his hips again slightly so she could remove the garment entirely, and toss it aside. She hovered, very close to his cock, and he could feel her warm breath. "I love you," she whispered. The words ghosted across his hardening flesh, and he shivered, his mouth wide in a silent plea. He wanted to feel her; to be inside her and feel loved; to remind himself that sex was not a punishment; to learn that sharing his body did not mean submitting to anyone. Sex was something to be given and shared, not stolen and used. He didn’t know how long it would take him to learn these things, but he was painfully eager to start. His body was desperate to.

His heart hammered, watching her. "Tell me what to do," she breathed, and he drew a sharp breath as his cock throbbed in response to her deference. He felt a thrill at the control she gave him; comforted and relaxed.

Unthinking, Fenris reached out to touch her face. She closed her eyes, smiling warmly as his thumb traced her cheekbone lovingly. He outlined the shape of her jaw, and touched her lips. Then he put two fingers beneath her chin, and tilted her head upwards, so she would look at him. As her eyes snapped open and their gazes locked, he knew his love for her was hopeless, and he was glad for it.

"I want you,” Fenris sighed. Her gaze was shining with lust at his declaration. "I want to be inside you. Please."

“Be specific” she told him, her smile growing quickly into a devious smirk.

Fenris gave an uncontrolled whine as his cock ached. “Maker, please, let me have your mouth on me, Hawke. Please.”

She obliged instantly, and he threw his head back as her lips wrapped around the head of his cock. He did not know what to do with his hands, so he clutched the arms of the chair almost violently, his knuckles going white as she slipped all the way down, taking him in completely.

The pleasure burst in his lower belly, trickling, warm, light, and wet. She looked so pretty with her hair falling in her face, her mouth full with him. In all their time together, he had never let her do this, and now, he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t remember anything. Her tongue swirled around the head, and the sensation was all his mind could handle. Then she was lavishing the length of him with sloppy kisses, and he was lost.

She moved; all the way up, almost releasing him, then swallowed him whole again in the next second. Every moment he was not buried completely in that luscious mouth was torture, and he groaned as she drew the process out, going slower and slower with every bob. The head of his cock kept nudging the back of her throat, and every motion was like being filled with a great white light, warm and familiar. His breathing was rapid, and his chest practically hurt under the pressure of his heartbeat. Every exhale was punctuated in a soft moan, and he felt her chuckle around him. It vibrated through him, and it felt so good - too good. He lost himself. As though by instinct, he lashed out to take a fistful of her hair.

It all came flooding back again. He let go of her immediately with a yelp of panic and guilt. She stopped immediately, and looked up at him. “You can hold me if you want to,” she told him. Her eyes were lustful and her lips swollen, but she looked concerned. She was too perfect. She was too good to him. He shook his head.

“That’s... too much power,” he said between heavy breaths. He was ashamed of his reaction, but knew she would not laugh; not after yesterday. “I do not want you to stop,” he pleaded, “but… I just remember his hands… in my hair.” He closed his eyes. “I remember it too well. It’s too real to me right now, and… I will not become that.”

“No,” she said. “You won’t. You don’t need to do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing. Just know - maybe for the future - that I have no problem with it if you would want to touch my hair, or grab it, or even direct me.” There was a pause, during which they stared hungrily at one another, but she seemed to know him better than he did because a second later she asked, “Do you need me to stop?”

He did not answer, feeling too lost in pleasure and confused by pain to know what he wanted. "Tell me what you need," she said firmly.

Fenris smiled sadly. “I want you so much,” he managed finally. “But I… my body, it… it still lives in a place between the past and the present. I still feel him." She craned her neck to bring her face close to his, and he leaned down to rest his damp forehead against hers. They simply breathed together, basking in each other’s scent.

“This must have been scary for you,” she told him. “But you see how well you handled it, and how far you’ve come despite everything you’ve been through; you’ve felt the pleasure your body can experience from acts that you used to shy from, haven’t you?” He nodded slowly as she crawled back into his lap, straddling his naked figure. “I’m so proud of you, and I love you so much. It’s okay if any of this is too much. This was a lot already. I'm surprised you even wanted it today. Please don’t be afraid to tell me you need to stop.”

He thought his heart might leap from his throat. He was nervous; terrified, in fact, by the darkness still shadowing him - _Danarius’ patronizing face, his cold laugh, the feel of his hands on Fenris’ naked body, and his cock; hard and heavy inside him as he tensed, reluctant but pliant to his Master’s will_. But this - this was not like that. She was not him. She did not, even, have the body parts to invade him that way. This was a comfort, surprisingly, and oh how he loved her body. But still the fear had him paralyzed. “I… don’t know.”

“ _I don’t know means no_ ,” she said firmly. His half hard cock was nestled between them and her arms were around his neck. “And it's okay not to know. It's okay to be confused." His chest constricted. How was she so wise? "I love you so much, Fenris,” she said warmly between deep breaths, and her genuine smile seemed to glow. It was intoxicating. “I told you I would not do anything without your explicit permission, and I meant it. I’m not going to do anything whatsoever until you are a hundred percent ready, and can tell me ‘yes, please,’ with no inhibition. You’ve had enough choice taken away from you in your life, and I’m not going to add to that.” She kissed his collarbone, then nuzzled the spot where her lips had touched him. It sent his heart reeling. “I want you to feel confident that, at least with me, you will always have a choice, and always have freedom.”

“Thank you,” he rasped, but it was nothing like thanking his Master for his false generosity. This time, Fenris meant it. “Thank you for being here. Thank you for doing this. Just… thank you.”

“Oh, hush, you,” she said. “I will always be here for you.” Then she kissed him. She tasted like sex, and the feel of her tender lips and tongue lit a brand new fire in him. He wrapped his arms around her. The kiss became frenzied; it was all teeth, tongue, breathless moans, and wandering hands.

Then, automatically, he bit her lip.

Fenris pulled away, freezing with shock. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean…”

She put a hand on his face, and he went silent, falling endlessly into her bright eyes. “Fenris,” she said with the slightest smirk. “You don’t need to be afraid to hurt me. I don't need protecting. I understand you’re afraid of becoming him, and afraid of triggering those memories again, so it’s alright. When we made love - before yesterday - being in control seemed to mean servicing me. I don’t want to see that from you anymore. I don’t think that’s good for you. Honestly I think it was keeping you stuck in your past.” She kissed him again, briefly, chastely, before continuing, staring longingly at his lips as she spoke. “From what I know about you, and from what I know now about your past... I think that learning to take as well as give… well, I think it could turn some things around for you.” He searched her face, unsure what to say. She chuckled at his confused expression.

His mind, heart, and body were all in several different places it seemed. His heart was aching with tension while his body still screamed for her. “I just,” he began, “I just want you to know that I _do_ still want you… and I want… I need to know that I can still…”

She put a hand to his lips, and he raised his eyebrows, smiling a little at how gentle she was being. “Sex between us will never be about proving anything to yourself or to me.” Then she paused, and added sternly, “Or to Danarius.” She hissed the name as though it tasted sour.

Fenris took her head in his hands, and pulled her into him, demanding another kiss - passionate, desperate, grateful, and somehow anguished. She moaned, and rocked against him as he delved into her with his tongue, and he grew hot beneath her in response to her reaction.

After a minute, he pulled away, searching her face. “You know me better than I do,” he growled. “How do you do that?”

“I don’t,” she sighed breathlessly. “It just... “ Then she laughed. “I don’t know, honestly, Fenris! You just make sense to me, even though it’s some complicated shit you’ve been through.” He chuckled a little, running his fingers up and down her back. She shivered in his arms, leaning into the caress.

He let his face fall onto her shoulder, feeling emotionally drained. His head was still pounding, though through all his arousal, he had not noticed it. “I’m glad to know,” he croaked, “that I can still feel...  well, that I…”

Hawke laughed gently. “That you can still enjoy your sexuality?” He nodded sheepishly. “Of course you can,” she told him softly, planting a kiss on his ear. “You may not be able to all the time, and it may take some time for you to own it, you do own it. Your sexuality is yours, even if it doesn’t feel that way. You are a free man. That bastard may have done a lot of damage, but you lived through it all, and you’re still you. He can’t take your pleasures away from you. He couldn’t before, and he certainly can’t this time. Not if I have anything to say about it, anyway.” Fenris could feel her smirk, even though he couldn’t see it. He hugged her tightly, drawing light circles on her ribcage as he held her close “Even if it takes time… you’ll get there. And I’ll be there through it all. No matter what.”

“Maker,” he breathed, and he was surprised to find the word falling on a sob. His eyes were stinging with tears. “I love you.”

She made a strange noise in the back of her throat, and sighed shakily. “Oh dear,” she laughed. “This is getting pretty mushy, isn’t it? We best be careful before this gets out of hand.”

Fenris laughed. It was low, rough, and genuine, and it felt as good as any physical pleasure. He held her tighter. “Yes,” he sneered. “We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

After a long moment of holding her in happy silence, he whispered, “Hawke?”

“Mm?” She twirled a bit of his hair around her finger lovingly.

“Promise never to get that close to dying ever again?”

She exhaled sharply in a silent laugh. “I’ll do my best, Fenris.”

“Make sure to have twice as many lyrium potions as you need. Always.”

“Okay, Fenris.”

They were quiet again for a time. Both were simply enjoying the feel of the other’s closeness. His pain still rampaged through his system, but he was not as flooded by it as he had been yesterday. Waking up with her had helped a bit, and this precious reminder that his body was still his own - well, it more than helped. He’d never forget it.

On some level, Fenris could still feel him, hovering - always, hovering; always his silent slave driver. But the noise was dulled for the moment, and he felt grounded. After the day he’d had yesterday, feeling grounded was all he could really hope for.

“Fenris?”

“Yes, Hawke?”

“I think my leg is cramping.”

For the first time that morning, they got up. Fenris stretched, only just realizing how stiff and sore his muscles were. He watched Hawke’s lithe figure roll at her hips, and bend, stretching out the taught muscles of her long legs. He felt his cheeks blossom with heat as he watched her. Then, he spoke. “It’s… nice to know again what’s real and what’s just a bad memory.” He shrugged as she came to stand beside him, pressing her body up against him. They fit perfectly together, just touching gently with no expectations, and the fabric of her robes was cool against his flushed expanse of skin. “Maybe that doesn’t seem like much, but to me, it’s… really important.” 

“See, I told you you needed some sleep,” she said, wagging her finger in his face. He snarled playfully at her, and pressed his forehead against hers.

“Sleep wasn’t all that did it, you idiot.” He kissed her nose in gratitude.

“But it did help, didn’t it?”

 Fenris conceded. “Even after that nightmare… I supposed I did feel more grounded when I woke up. Hard not to, though, with the blinding headache I had.”

 “Is it gone?” She touched his temples with her fingertips.

 "Somewhat,” he told her. He was lost in her eyes, and wanted to stay that way until death came for him.

 “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, looking concerned. “D’you want me to get you something greasy for breakfast?”

 Fenris blinked sleepily at the windows. The dark curtains kept the room in shadow, but there were strips of sunlight blazing paths across the shattered glass on the floor. It really was another day; another opportunity to keep going. But he felt timid with Danarius’ bodiless presence still lurking in every corner, and didn’t want to be around anyone but Hawke today.

 “We should return to your estate,” he rumbled, allowing himself the luxury of running his fingers through Hawke’s hair. She practically purred, and closed her eyes adoringly as he did. “Perhaps we can eat something there. I… don’t want to be here anymore.”

 She smiled widely. “I’m glad you’re making the choice to leave, then. I’m proud of you for that.”

 Something brightened in him. Her faith and pride in him was like a new breath of oxygen; like seeing the sun after days of captivity. It gave him hope like little else ever had.

 "Y'know," she said hesitantly, finally pulling away and bending to pick up his tunic. "It's all up to you, of course, but -" She paused, fidgeting with a small tear along one of the seams. She smiled suddenly, blushing fiercely, and rubbed the back of her neck. She looked nervous. "If you... would rather not stay here... at all anymore... you would be welcome..."

 Hawke’s face was very red, and there were splotches of color creeping over her neck, threatening to spill beneath her neckline and stain her chest pink as well. She was looking away, though she remained smiling. He laughed. “Hawke, I... “ He shook his head, blinking exhaustion out of his eyes. “What are you saying?

“I just mean,” she mumbled, “you… well, you don’t deserve to live among all these ghosts as you put it. You deserve to get away from them, so you can start to live a life separate from Danarius. A new life. A life truly on your own. A life… with me?”

Fenris took a step forward. He was still naked, and he pressed his front against her side to wrap his arms around her again. “Are you… asking me to move in with you, Hawke?” He gave a long, low sigh as she looked up at him with an embarrassed smile to confirm what he suspected. “That’s…”

He thought about it. Did he honestly want to be apart from her anymore for the sake of his independence? Wasn’t she giving him more independence than he’d ever had - even on his own - by offering him choices? By offering him hope? And by living here… wasn’t he keeping Danarius with him, even in death? Wasn’t he almost refusing to put his abuse behind him?

Though he had been surprised at first by the suggestion, Fenris now grinned. It was wide, sweet, and infectious. She traced the shape of it with her fingers reverently. “I am as much a slave in this house as I ever was with him,” he said coolly, then he straightened his posture a little. “I…” He didn’t really know how to say it, and he found himself laughing nervously a second later.

She scrunched up her nose. “You’re blushing,” she teased.

“So are you.” He pressed his forehead to hers, and she tittered.

“Are you saying you’ll stay with me?” He nodded, grateful she hadn’t made him say it. Then her lips were on his, and he groaned softly into the ecstasy of her kiss, the delicious wetness of tongue and mouth, and - ah, he could kiss her all day and be happy.

No kiss lasts forever, sadly, he thought as she pulled away - but then another thought occurred to him, and he split into an uncontrollable grin.

“What?” she asked. “Why are you smiling like that, you big goof?”

“You just… make me feel so normal. I was just thinking that… if I move in with you… like any man, I can kiss the woman I love when I wake up, and kiss her goodnight before sleep. I can roll over in the dead of night, and find you there beside me.” His heart leapt, and there seemed to be butterflies in his stomach. “If I remember… or if I have my terrible nightmares… you’ll be there. You’ll be next to me. You’ll always be there.”

She rolled her eyes, smirking happily. “That’s the idea,” she said. “So if you’re gonna do this, you might as well get used to the idea of being stuck with me! My home will be your home.”

“Home,” he repeated. “The only real home I remember, I was never safe there, and I was always at the whim of my Master. _Danarius_ , I mean. After that, I was on the run. There was never a place to call home, truly, until I landed with you, and... “ He looked around. “Well, this mansion has been home enough, but... it’s honestly been nothing but a sinkhole of unhappy nostalgia. I don’t want live like that anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” she told him cheerfully. She looped her fingers with his, and rested her head on his shoulder. “You will be safe with me.”

“I know I will,” he rumbled. “I feel safe with you always, at least from the world, if not from my past - and that’s a lot. You are everything to me.”

“Okay, stop it now, before you make me cry, dummy.” She sniffed. He tightened his hold on her, and she squealed, her breasts crushing against him. “Fenris, you’re squishing me!” Her giggle was sweet music to him, and though he lightened his grip a little, he did not let go.

“There’s nothing to cry about,” he said. “It’s not as though you’re stuck with my memories haunting you, like I am.”

“I mean happy tears, silly. I feel like I could cry because I love you so damn much.”

He shook his head with a small breathy chuckle. “Okay. I just don’t want you to hurt because of me, that’s all. Like yesterday...”

Her hands tensed on his back. “Y’know, loving you changes a lot of things,” she whispered against him. He pulled back, his head throbbing, to eye her curiously. “Loving you means that I feel… sort of an echo of what you feel when you feel it. Empathy, y’know?” She bit her lip, looking suddenly concerned that she was expressing herself all wrong. “I don’t mean that I feel what you feel. There’s no way I can ever really understand the horrors you’ve been through. But I just mean… I hurt when you hurt. It’s a different hurt, but... anyway, what I’m saying is… I know you don’t want me to hurt because of you, but… when it happens, you don’t need to feel guilty, because I hurt only as a reflection of your pain - an unavoidable result of being in love with you.” Then she smirked. “And that… is not something you can ever stop, nor should you want to.”

Fenris pressed his lips against her jugular, and lavished her with a slow, tender kiss that elicited a delicate low moan from her. “You babble a lot,” he laughed upon ceasing. “I love it. And I love you. I wouldn’t ever want you to stop loving me anyway, so… I guess that works out well.”

Hawke snorted. “You dork.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled, blushing furiously, and suddenly feeling very self conscious. He looked around for his clothes. “I should probably…”

“Get dressed again?”

“Yes, that.”

“If you say so,” she sighed with a playful pout as she looked his body up and down. “But I make no promises about remaining dressed myself once we get home.”

Fenris’ face lit up. “You said _home_ ,” he pointed out.

Her laugh was loud and powerful. “I did!” she said, the mirth rich in her tone. “How does that feel to you?”

He thought for a second, then - to his horror and without warning - he was struck hard by images, sounds, and feelings of a time long gone. He flung out an arm to clutch her shoulder as he lost himself, and dimly he could feel her hand on his, and her voice repeating his name, attempting to ground him. But he was too far away to hear her now.

Fenris was recalling waking up after the ritual, as vividly as though it were happening all over again.

_It was the beginning of his life. He had no memory of anything but agony, and sometimes if he strained his mind, he thought he could faintly recall dark figures around him, and feel cool stone beneath him while he shivered, naked in a dimly lit chamber. But his first real, clear memory was waking up in a cold room that was empty save for a tiny creaking bed and a chamber pot. He was naked, and his skin was red and raw and burning. He screamed. The air felt like fire to the fresh ridges on his skin, and every touch was torture. The floor against his backside; his hair on the back of his neck; everything was blindingly painful, and he couldn’t shut it off. He remembered the horror and confusion he felt, staring down at his naked body, a body he barely recognized, covered in bright, glowing marks. The lines were raised slightly, like recently closed wounds, and the flesh around each marking was a vivid pink color. He screamed, he cried, he tried to get out - but the door was barred shut, and banging on it only caused him more pain._

_Fenris had waited, crying out in terror and skull-splitting agony, begging to nothing and no one for some relief. He did not know his name. He did not know where he came from. He had no concept of religion or love or hope, and did not know what human contact felt like. He was a newborn babe, unaware of the world - alone, abandoned, and in pain. He could not tell how much time was passing, but he learned later that he had been starved there for almost three whole days. As that third day came to a close, the lock clicked. He was so weak, he couldn’t stand, but sat on the bed staring at the threshold warily as a man entered. Danarius was the first face Fenris had ever seen, and he had been a blessing. He had smiled, offering him food, water, closeness. He held him, comforted him, and fed him like a child. “You are safe, boy,” he’d said, and Fenris had looked up at him, wide-eyed and fearful, desperately clinging to the sound of him as though it were life itself, like a baby hanging onto the sound of his mother’s voice. “You are safe, and you are well. I will take care of you. You’re home now.”_

_Home. He was home. It had been such a comfort at the time. The next year he spent in training, learning both how to be a proper slave, and how to function in the world. He learned about the Maker, about Tevinter society and hierarchy, and the protocols of servitude. It was some time before he was also taught what his body was made for, and began training as Danarius’ personal toy. After the first time Danarius had come inside him, he’d stroked his hair and held him close as he trembled in shock, his body aching, bruised and throbbing. “You’ve come so far,” he’d said soothingly into his ear. “You’ve really settled in, haven’t you? You belong here with me, my little Fenris. This will always be your home.”_

Fenris had believed him. It was his home. His first.

But those years were far behind him now. Fenris’ brow furrowed. His breathing was shallow, and he was sweating again. That had never really been his home. He had never belonged there.

Hawke’s hand on his face, and her lips so close to him - this was where he belonged. Her heat beside him, her soft glow as she looked at him - that was home for him, and he was glad to feel it again. Glad that the memories were fading again. “Fenris,” she whispered. “You okay?”

“Just… remembering…” His voice was tremulous.

“You were gone for a second there.”

“It happens,” he grunted.

“I know. I’m prepared for it.”

“Home,” he muttered distantly. “He… but it wasn’t home. He said it was, but… and I… but not anymore.” He focused his eyes on her again, then kissed her, slow and sensual, feeling her heart skip against his chest. “You have rewritten what home means to me, Hawke, and no matter where we are, I...” She was looking at him so strangely, like she didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh. “You are my home now,” he finished quietly.

There was a long moment of comfortable, sad silence between them. He wondered if it would always be like this from now on: comfortable, yet constantly fearful that she knew what he was thinking. She knew too much now, and had too much insight into his life for him to keep his pain from her anymore. Ultimately, he knew this would serve him well, but it was still terrifying.

Shrugging, Fenris took a step back to rub his neck awkwardly. Her sympathetic gaze seemed to burn him, so he distracted himself by scooping up his trousers. “I never thought I’d live under the same roof as a mage again,” he laughed dryly as he began to redress himself. She rolled her eyes, handing him his tunic.

When the was dressed again, Fenris found himself feeling strangely empty, and just as naked as he had been a moment ago. “So…” He cleared his throat. “You really…? I mean, you know so much now, and even knowing all that… you still want me to live with you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She put her hands on her hips. “Didn’t I say that your past does not make me love you any less?”

“Telling me things doesn’t make me believe them, y’know.” There was a terrible lump in his throat.

Hawke looked like she’d just been pinched. Her eyes watered a little. “I know,” she said quietly. “And I’ll try to get used to that. But whether you believe it or not, it’s true, and I need you to trust me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Whether I can feel loved or not, I will always trust you, and love you until the day I die.”

“That’s enough,” she said with a great sigh. “In fact, it’s more than enough.”

She reached out for him, and he stared at her outstretched palm uncertainly. “We’re going home,” she clarified.

WIth a deep breath, he put his tattooed hand in hers.

The memories would almost certainly never go away, and the trauma may be permanently etched into him like his markings - but in the end, Fenris was capable of love, and trust, and those were bigger accomplishments than he was yet capable of realizing.

One night, though - years later - Fenris would awake in their darkened bedroom with Hawke’s sleeping figure warm beside him, and he would marvel at the fact that he could love at all. He would remember how a mage had destroyed him once, and he would smile with the fresh realization that he still had the strength to put trust into anyone again, let alone another mage.

So many years after believing that love was not an option for him, Fenris was able to love - deeply, and with all of himself. Best of all, he could hear her whisper “I love you” between soft kisses against his skin, and he could _believe_ her.

That, he realized, was a feat greater than most.

Fenris had survived. He had made it to this point, and that was proof enough of the strength Hawke had always insisted was there. All these years later, he was able to curl up next to her in their shared bed, and feel safe. He could feel wanted. He could feel at home. He could feel - for the first time - like his old wounds might actually have a real chance of scarring over, and maybe even fading.

With this, Fenris was content.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Remember: You are strong, you are perfect the way you are, and there is hope.


End file.
